Saturday, August 5, 2017

Whether
you are a reader who enjoys reading erotic stories or a writer who
creates erotic fiction, carefully tucked away in the recesses of almost
everyone’s mind lies your own little treasure trove of secret
stories beginning with those all-important first steps you took as
you set off upon your own personal path of erotic discovery. I would
hope, ‘wink-wink ... nod-nod’ you appreciate exactly the kind of
stories I’m referring to. If not, the kinds of memories I’m
thinking of were described most eloquently by Bob Seger in his famous
song of youth and passion titled Night Moves. Of course,
because in the days when we were first learning our ‘night moves’
most of us were quite young, the telling of such stories is
technically taboo. Yet, your cherished memories of the first time
you held hands, your very first kiss, or the first time you played
Truth or Dare or steamed up the windows of your mom’s car …
whatever your own personal reminiscences may be … these experiences
are as fundamental to the person you’ve become as the steps you
took in learning to tie your own shoes or riding a two-wheeled bike.

Okay,
I’ll confess I read Dear Abby. Because of this, I know there are
people in their twenties, thirties, or even older (Remember the film
The 40-Year-Old-Virgin?) who have yet to experience their very first
… well … anything. Luckily for me, I grew up in a neighborhood
with a number of extremely curious girls my own age, and the memories
of my youth brim with vivid recollections of many heart-pounding
experiences I will always cherish. Because my own memories remain so
clear within my mind’s eye, on occasion, while interacting with
someone in the most public of situations, from within the silence
behind my eyes I sometimes find myself wondering if this person also
retains similar indelible recollections they enjoy returning to from
time-to-time. Personally, I hope so, as I’m afraid I can’t
escape feeling a bit sorry for anyone who has never experienced the
onset of sweaty palms and a racing heart along with that tell-tale
tickling of butterflies flitting about down low.

My
newest novel, The Finisher, takes a look into the life of a young
woman who has never had the opportunity to learn such things as night
moves even exist. Raised as a servant girl cloistered away in a
remote convent, though Miss Anna-Leigh Oliver is a bright and
intelligent young lady well-versed in the three R’s, never once in
her eighteen-years upon this earth has she experienced any
interaction whatsoever with the opposite sex. Upon the death of her
distant aunt, when the executors of the estate learn of young
Anna-Leigh’s naiveté about the outside world, they enroll her in
New England’s most exclusive finishing school … to properly
“finish” her education. Below is an excerpt from The Finisher
taken from Anna-Leigh’s introductory interview with the school’s
Headmistress.

“I
must say, my dear, you have piqued my curiosity with your reaction
when I spoke the word boys. Having spent veritably your entire life
cloistered away amongst the sisters, what experiences might you have
had with any boys?”

“Experience
with b… b… boys?” Anna–Leigh stammered as she repeated the
word. “I fear I know not what you mean.”

“Dear
god, girl, you say the word boys as though it both terrifies and
mystifies you. Now please don’t expect me to believe you are as
entirely unfamiliar with the masculine sex as you are with the rest
of the world? The very idea of such ignorance would be absurd. Now,
I require that you answer me truthfully. Tell me. What exposure
have you had to the opposite sex?”

Sex!’
The word ringing in her ears, she again crossed herself. If her
heart was racing before, now it was positively pounding in her
throat. ‘Sex!’ Do people dare to utter such a word aloud?
Breaking her silence, Anna–Leigh attempted to buy time by
repeating the question, “What do I know of the opposite––”
Try as she might, she simply couldn’t bring herself to speak such a
word. “You mean a man, like a priest?” Nodding eagerly, she
hoped she’d found an escape. “Priests are men, are they not?”

Visibly
taken aback, the headmistress’s arched eyebrow reached a new high.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking priests are men.” Leaning as far
forward as her massive bosom allowed, she appeared as though what she
was about to ask was the most important question ever. But what I’m
asking is to know everything you know about the masculine sex?”

Anna–Leigh
rolled her eyes to the ceiling, thinking while attempting to organize
her thoughts. “Well … they? They…?” Suddenly an answer
popped into her head, and she knew what to say. “Men don’t wear
dresses as women do. They wear pants, and suit coats with vests and
ties. Their voices are deeper than ours. Most wear their hair
shorter than women, and many have hair on their faces … moustaches
and beards and such.”

The
headmistress slumped back in her chair. “That’s it?” Now it
was her turn to roll her eyes to the ceiling. “Such is the depth
and breadth of your knowledge? That men have beards and wear pants.
My dear girl. Can this be true?”

Anna–Leigh
couldn’t fathom what was so wrong with her answer, but from the
headmistress’s reaction, she knew her response had proved sorely
lacking.

Almost
immediately, the headmistress came back with another question.

“What
interactions have you had with boys your own age?”

“Well
…” Desperate to do better this time, she began slowly, thinking
carefully in advance of speaking. “Yes … I have seen boys a few
times … and I assume some of them were my age. The first time I
recall seeing any boys was when I travelled to my aunt’s estate
just before her death. Most recently, I did see some in town when
the school’s chaperone and I arrived at the station after the train
ride here. But,” steadfastly, she shook her head, “no boys ever
came to the abbey. So I have never actually spoken to one, but I’m
aware a young boy’s voice isn’t as deep as a grown man’s, and I
cannot recall having ever seen a boy with a moustache or a beard.”

With
each word Anna–Leigh spoke, the headmistress appeared more and more
taken aback. Slowly, as if this was also of the greatest importance,
she asked, “So, you’ve truly never, never even once interacted
with or spoken to a boy your own age?”

Aware
the headmistress would surely be displeased with her answer, but
knowing she must tell the truth, Anna–Leigh dropped her eyes to her
fingers in her lap and hushed, “No, Headmistress.”

“So?”
The headmistress raised her left hand, and as Anna–Leigh looked
up, she spread her fingers. “The entire scope of your knowledge
encompassing the differences between the sexes consists of….”
She tapped the tip of her right index finger to the tip of the index
finger on her left hand, ticking off one by one a list of what she’d
just heard. “Men do not wear dresses. They wear suits with vests,
ties and pants. Men have deeper voices than women. Most wear their
hair shorter than women do. Many men have a beard and or moustache,
but boys, for reasons unknown do not? This is the all–encompassing
sum of what you know about the masculine sex?”

Under
the headmistress’s unflinching gaze, Anna–Leigh felt her cheeks
begin to heat up.

The
headmistress kept her eyes locked upon the clearly embarrassed girl.
“I can see there is something you are withholding from me. There
is, isn’t there?”

“Well…”
Anna–Leigh’s cheeks bloomed positively scarlet. “We, I mean
girls, or actually, I imagine I should say women.” She took in a
deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “We are shaped differently
than they are.” Anna–Leigh raised her trembling hands before her
bosom and bit her bottom lip in anticipation of her shame. “My …
my body, it … it has recently changed. I … I––”

Breaking
in on the stammering girl, the headmistress prodded impatiently,
“Come now, girl. Out with it.”

“I…”
Anna–Leigh dropped her hands to her lap, hushing in a whisper, “I
have a bosom now. Oh my dear God!” Her fingers flew through the
motions as she crossed herself. “I cannot believe I am speaking
aloud of such things. As girls, we do not have a bosom, but when we
grow older and begin to mature into young women, our bodies go
through certain … certain … well … changes. But I have not
seen a man or a boy with a bosom, so there must be differences …
physical differences beyond voice, clothing and hair.”

For
the first time in a long while, the edge of that wry smile reappeared
upon headmistress’s lips. “How very astute of you, my dear.
Yes, there do exist significant physical differences between men and
women. Trust me when I tell you, you have a great many surprises in
store for you. Wondrous things. Mysteries and revelations, which
will frighten you, yet will also prove to excite you, and hopefully,
fulfill you beyond measure. Here at my school, we strive to prepare
our young ladies for every situation they will encounter after they
graduate and go out into the world. We endeavor to instill every
element of refinement and sophistication a tasteful young lady should
embody.”

With
a flourish, the headmistress raised her right hand, wafting her
fingers around in a circular motion as though she was a queen
standing out on a balcony and gesturing to her adoring populace
below. “We teach the essential social graces of manner and
deportment, poise and posture, and most importantly, style. Yet,
even more crucial than these indispensable social skills, I insist we
endow each and every girl with the knowledge of certain intimacies
she must know to achieve her potential as a woman and as a wife.
Every so often, a girl comes to us like you, a girl with little or no
awareness of matters most girls her age have been aware of as common
knowledge most all of their lives. On the other hand,” she gave a
knowing wink, “dictates of proper social decorum to the contrary, I
must confess, we do at times have girls come to us, who are already
extremely well versed in such intimate matters. Perhaps you could
even say, experts in the field. Our own social gadfly Phoebe Ayers
is just such a young lady. Do you know her?”

Instantly,
an image of Phoebe appeared in Anna–Leigh’s mind. Confident,
popular, and hands down the most shapely girl in the school, with
raven black hair and deep, dark, knowing eyes. “I know who she is,
but I do not know her. She’s in my needlepoint class.”

The
headmistress slipped her thumb below her chin and began tapping her
forefinger to her temple as she thought. “Yes,” clearly having
decided something, she folded both her hands together on the desk
before her, assuming the posture of a queen ready to issue an edict,
“I do believe I’ve decided what I am going to do with you, my
dear.”

~~~

Though
I set The Finisher in the 1870’s, there’s no pun intended when I
say, “… the rest is history.” As you’ve been reading this,
hopefully you’ve taken a little stroll down your own very personal
memory lane, recalling those days when you were young and innocent,
yet eager to take those all-important first steps towards learning
your very own night moves.

Contest! Leave me a comment with your email, and I will enter you into a drawing to win an autographed copy of The Finisher!

About the Author

Michael
Swanson is an author of Horror, Sci-fi and Adventure novels and short
stories, including the Sci-Fi bestseller Farlight. He also writes
romance and erotica under the pen name M. Millswan. Amongst novels
such as The Finisher, Tabu and Living in the State of Dreams, his
classically sensual short story, Snap Shot has earned almost two
million reads on Literotica.com.